


How to Get the Girl of Your Dreams

by adreadfulidea



Category: Mad Men
Genre: F/F, Stan Rizzo/Michael Ginsberg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 15:06:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14022861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreadfulidea/pseuds/adreadfulidea
Summary: The girl who slid into the seat next to her wore the most perfect eyeliner Peggy had ever seen.





	How to Get the Girl of Your Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Mad Men Femslash Challenge 2018.

 

 

 

 

The girl who slid into the seat next to her wore the most perfect eyeliner Peggy had ever seen. It was Egyptian in style, thick and black with an adjoining shadowed blue line tracing the top of the lid. Like Jean Shrimpton. Cigarette in hand, Peggy watched her out of the corner of her eye. She brushed a strand of dark hair out of her face and smiled apologetically. The smile rippled the image of perfection; it was toothy and charmingly flawed. It made her prettier.

“This is going to sound crazy,” she said, “but could you pretend you know me?”

Peggy put her drink down. There was lipstick on the rim of the glass. “Bad date?”

“Not exactly,” said the girl. “Getting chatted up by force.” She made a face, pulling her mouth into a moue of horror, and nodded at a table behind her that was occupied by a single man.

Peggy tried to examine him without being obvious about it. “Good lord,” she muttered. “Is that supposed to be a beard?”

“I don’t know what it is,” she said. “But it’s looking at me.”

Peggy laughed. So did her new friend. “I’m Peggy,” she said, extending her hand.

“Megan,” she said, taking it. “Calvet.”

“So you’re French?” Peggy asked. That explained the makeup, beautiful but out of place on a Thursday night.

“Not the kind you’re thinking of,” Megan said. She pulled a cigarette out of a silver case. “French-Canadian. I’m from Montreal.”

“Canada,” said Peggy. “Is it as cold up there as everyone says?”

“Everyone asks that down here,” Megan said. “And yes, it is.” She opened the clutch she was carrying and frowned down at it. “Do you happen to have a light? I forgot mine at home.”

“Here,” said Peggy, picking up a pack of matches someone left on the bar. She cupped the flame in her hand while Megan leaned over with the cigarette in her mouth. It caught and Megan exhaled a thin line of smoke through her nose.

“You’re smoother than he was,” she said, and grinned.

“Thanks,” Peggy said, her face a little warm. Must have been the drink. “So did you have a shitty day, too?” It wasn’t the kind of bar you drank at to meet people. Hunter green walls, dark wood wainscoting, the smell of cigar smoke in all the furniture. Don would have loved it.

But fuck Don, anyway. He was why she was here, sulking into her glass.

“You bet,” said Megan. “I got _fired_.”

“Oh my god,” Peggy said. “That’s much worse than mine. My boss was just an asshole. From where?”

“This little daily down in the village,” she said. “I was the receptionist, not a writer. The whole thing shuttered, so at least it wasn’t just me.” She sighed. “I liked working somewhere creative, though. Now it’s back to the rat race.”

“Well, now I _have_ to buy you a drink,” Peggy said. She waved away Megan’s protests. “Get her anything she wants,” she told the bartender. “And I do mean anything.”

“Gin and tonic,” said Megan. “I hope you didn’t hope I was going to order anything more interesting.”

“It’s Thursday,” said Peggy, glumly. “We’re all holding ourselves back.” She was probably going to have to work this Saturday, too. Shit. Not that she had plans with anyone.

“Guess it’s the weekend for me,” Megan said. “Hopefully not for long. My roommate can’t cover the rent by herself.”

“I’m sure you’ll find something,” Peggy reassured her. “Are you an artist?” She looked like she could be one. There was something bohemian about her.

“Failed actress,” said Megan. “Is it obvious?”

“Well, you’re very beautiful,” she said, and then didn’t quite know why she had. It made Megan smile, at least. “I’m not surprised you were an actress. What made you quit?”

“I couldn’t get parts,” Megan said.

Peggy traced the rim of her glass with the pad of her thumb. “Oh,” she said. “Um, so that wasn’t the best question to ask. I admit that. Maybe you should talk for awhile.”

Megan stubbed out her cigarette. “It’s fine,” she said. “I’m not offended. But it’s the same reason anyone quits anything, isn’t it? Not a very special story. It just started making me feel like a piece of meat after awhile.” She sighed and tipped her head back. “Like I would go into auditions and they would make me turn around so they could see my backside. Or ask if I was comfortable with being in my underwear. Or try and get my number.” She slid her empty glass along the bar. “Nobody wanted to see me actually act.”

Peggy thought about that first week at Sterling Cooper. The way she could feel eyes on her when she crossed the office floor, drawn by nothing other than her having a skirt on. Joan telling her to put a bag over her head. Pete showing up at her door.

Her letting him in.

“I can see why you’d get sick of it,” she said. “What is so hard about just letting people do their jobs? We’re not their girlfriends. _Or_ their mothers.”

“Girlfriend or mother,” Megan said. “You must have had a _really_ bad day at work.”

“I sure did,” Peggy said, and raised her glass only to remember that Megan had already finished hers. “Oh.”

Megan’s eyes crinkled up at the corners. “Should I get another? I wouldn’t want you to miss your toast.”

Peggy looked back over her shoulder. There was a couple sitting at the table Megan had been fleeing from, browsing the menu. “Your admirer is gone,” she said. “You don’t have to stay.”

She expected Megan to smile, thank her for the drink, and slip out. After which Peggy would have another drink, and then one more — enough to blunt the edges of her irritation — and would head home alone. She wouldn’t call Mark. She might ignore the phone if it rang, unless it occurred to her that it could be somebody from work.

And Megan did pick up her purse and slip the strap over her shoulder. But she didn’t leave. “You could come with,” she said. “I know it’s Thursday, but —” She shrugged. “You look like you need to blow off some steam.”

Peggy considered it. What was she going to do if she went home, anyway? Work some more or watch Lucy reruns.

There was curl of excitement in her belly, a desire to do the unexpected. She thought she would regret going home more than she would going out, though Peggy admittedly wasn’t very good at predicting her regrets.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Megan actually clapped, which was very cute. “Where?” she said. “I didn’t really have a plan in mind.”

“You pick,” Peggy said. She liked not knowing, she decided. It was a night for being impulsive. “I’m up for anything.”

Megan slipped an arm through hers when they got off their bar stools and gathered their coats. Peggy left a tip on the bar. It was Joan who taught her to do that — she’d only ever tipped waitresses, before. Megan leaned over. “I’ll hold you to that,” she said, into Peggy’s ear.

 

 

The party Megan took her to was so packed that they couldn’t get through the front door. It spilled out into the hallway — to the joy and acceptance of the neighbors, Peggy was sure — and they had to tromp back down the stairs and climb up the fire escape to get to the apartment. “Are we supposed to be doing this?” Peggy asked, her breath crystallizing in the icy air. She was wearing heels, which weren’t ideal for scrambling up cold metal as the sun went down.

“I don’t think anyone will mind,” Megan said. She had shapely legs, Peggy noticed, mostly because that was all she could see as they ascended the ladder. “We aren’t breaking in via skylight.”

The window was already opened, and there was a guy sitting down and having a cigarette when they reached the top. “Hi,” he said, slurring, and waved slowly at them.

“Hi!” Megan replied, brightly, and grabbed Peggy’s hand to pull her through the window.

“You think he’ll remember us tomorrow?” Peggy asked. The heat from the apartment hit her in the face, like opening an oven door. There were so many people, wall to wall. They had to elbow their way through the crowd to grab a couple of bottles of beer from the kitchen.

“I hope not,” Megan said. “Because we’re crashing.”

“ _What_ ,” Peggy said. She looked quickly around to see if anyone had heard.

“Relax,” Megan said. “Look at this place — how would they be able to tell who was invited and who wasn’t?”

“I thought you _knew_ these people,” Peggy said, clutching her coat closed as though they might have to flee into the cold post haste.

To Peggy’s everlasting horror Megan raised a hand and started yelling over the din. “Excuse me,” she said. “Excuse me!” The noise trailed off and heads swiveled in her direction. “I’m Megan,” she said, smiling broadly. “And this is Peggy!”

“Oh my god,” Peggy said.

“Okay,” someone said, and there was a smattering of laughter. Conversations resumed; the music continued; someone picked up a guitar to play along. No one kicked them out.

Megan’s smile transformed into a grin. The corners of her eyes crinkled up and she looked incredibly pleased with herself; the cat that got the canary.

“We know them now,” she said.

 

 

Peggy had her arm around Megan’s waist. She was also singing, loudly and off key, because Peggy couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. Her lack of ability didn’t seem to matter right now.

“When you’re alone and life is making you lonely,” she sang, and then dropped the rest of the line. Megan picked it up.

“You can always go —”

“ _Downtown_ ,” they shouted at the same time, and broke out laughing.

They were both mildly drunk. Megan had danced on a coffee table. Peggy felt good, in a simple and uncomplicated way. She didn’t think about work, or the arguments she was already having with Mark, or the way her mother had hung up on her last week. The night was just as cold but now she didn’t feel it, too flushed with enjoyment and the triumph that came with having a great evening out.

Megan’s apartment was in a little brick walk-up in Alphabet City. “My roommate won’t be home tonight,” she said, sliding her key into the lock. “Boyfriend. We’re both actresses, but she’s done commercial work while I’ve done nothing.”

The apartment was a typical New York apartment: small, square and with a kitchen that barely counted as such. But the decor was fantastic. Huge colorful op art prints on the walls — the kind of thing Stan made when he was bored — sheer scarves over the lampshades that bathed the room in pink light, and a rug with a geometric pattern were the central features of the living room. In addition there was the most charming kind of kitch present: a hula girl on the coffee table, a collection of random teapots on top of the cupboards. It was a warm and welcoming place.

Megan took her shoes off at the door and dropped her coat over the back over a kitchen chair. She got a watering can from under the sink and approached a hanging plant. “You want something to eat?” she asked. “I could cook.”

“I’m not hungry,” Peggy said. She walked through Megan’s apartment, looking at things and trying to guess if they belonged to her or her roommate. She wouldn’t usually move so freely in another person’s space, not the first time, but it was an unusual kind of night.

Megan put on a record. A woman with a smoky, bold voice sang about watching a man walk away. Peggy ran a finger along the top of the record library. “Who is this?” she asked.

“Dusty Springfield. You don’t know her?”

Peggy shook her head. “I don’t know much about music,” she said. “I swear I barely listen to the radio anymore, so I’m alway behind.” She liked the quiet when she was working. “I don’t know why I told you that,” she said, after. “I must sound like a real cheeseball.”

“You knew _Downtown_ ,” Megan said. She sat on the couch, drawing her feet up and tucking her legs gracefully under her. God, she looked like the best kind of ad — sexy, poised, mysterious. It really wasn’t fair.

Peggy laughed. “Yeah,” she said. “I do know that one.” She got on the couch, unsure what to do with any part of her body. She ended up sitting in that good Catholic girl way, her ankles crossed and her hands folded.

“So do you have a boyfriend?” Megan asked.

“No,” said Peggy. “I mean, yes.”

“Schrödinger’s boyfriend,” Megan said.

“What?” Peggy asked.

“I learned about it in college,” Megan said. “It’s a thought experiment that — look, nevermind. Is he real? As in a physical man that exists?”

“ _Yes_ ,” said Peggy. “He’s just —” She stopped herself, struggling to describe Mark.

“Not significant?” Megan asked, delicately as if she was taking a fallen eyelash from Peggy’s cheek. “It’s okay. I’ve dated guys like that before. They aren’t all meant to be permanent.”

“He isn’t bad,” said Peggy. “He’s fine, you know? A perfectly fine guy. But he — he tells people I’m his fiancée, sometimes. And I’m not.”

“Do you want to be?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “We haven’t been dating very long.” I can do better, she thought and then felt very guilty for it.

“Men always push everything too fast,” said Megan. “And I’m no prude. But if you chased after them they’d hate it.”

“Uh huh,” Peggy said. “But what would we do without them?”

“Have fun,” Megan said.

“... adult fun?” Peggy asked, and Megan barked out a laugh. “Well, it’s true! I like sex, okay. I shouldn’t be ashamed to admit it!”

“We don’t need them for that,” Megan said. “Didn’t you ever go to summer camp?”

Peggy blinked. She’d gone once, with church. Somehow she didn’t have to ask for details to know that it wasn’t the same thing. There had been nuns involved, and archery. It was the first time she saw some of them out of their habits. Sister Bernadine had played the guitar and let them tell ghost stories around the fire.

“Not the same kind you did, apparently,” she said.

“Oh, it was a bunch of bored rich girls in the woods,” she said. “There wasn’t much else to do but screw.”

“Oh,” said Peggy. She felt a little overheated, though there was frost on the windows. “I bet you didn’t even have to sleep in tents.”

Megan smiled. “We had cabins,” she said. “With showers and everything. You can’t let a bunch of doctor’s and professor’s daughters rough it. We all would have died.”

“I was out there with nuns,” Peggy said. “So, not much chance of —”

“Anything?”

“Yeah,” Peggy said. “Some girls did try to row over to the boy’s camp. But I was too scared to go.” She’d been too scared for a long time. Coming to the city had shaken that out of her. So had other things, worse things, the thing she never wanted to think about. It didn’t happen, after all.

“You’re Catholic?” Megan asked. “Me too. What’s your confirmation name?”

“Brigid,” said Peggy.

“I picked Agape,” said Megan, “because it means love.”

Dusty started singing about mockingbirds. Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. Wasn’t that a lullaby? She couldn’t stop looking at Megan’s lips. She had a very physical urge to reach out and touch them.

Megan started playing with her watch. She turned it around her wrist, fiddled with the clasp. “Did I make you uncomfortable, just then?” she asked.

“No,” said Peggy, very quickly. She wished she had taken off her coat. She must look so formal and stupid, sitting there all bundled up. “No, I was — interested.”

Megan raised her eyebrows. “Interested?”

“Well I’ve wondered,” she said, diving into the unknown. “What it was like.”

(Peggy sometimes thought she was either brave or a complete coward, with nothing in between. And she never knew what it was going to be until she opened her mouth.)

“What it was like,” Megan said. She looked surprised — the first time she had that night. “Being with a woman, you mean.”

“Is it different?” Peggy asked, seconds before it occurred to her it might be a stupid question..

Megan didn’t react like she was being stupid. She bit her lip and looked at Peggy in a way she would have recognized much earlier if it had been coming from a man. There had been energy humming between them all night. And she kept thinking about how pretty Megan was —

“I could show you,” she said.

“Is that why you brought me here?” Peggy asked. She hoped the answer was yes. She wanted Megan to say yes.

“I was hoping,” said Megan. “But I swear I was going to at least offer you a drink first.”

Peggy unbuttoned her coat. She folded it and put it on the coffee table. “I don’t need one,” she said.

“Oh,” said Megan, low and pleased, and kissed her. It wasn’t different at all, except for how it was. More gracious.

And she could taste lipstick. But Peggy wasn’t afraid of a little lipstick.

Peggy could feel a blush rounding her cheeks. Megan rested her palm against her hot skin, smiling a little. “I wonder how far down that goes,” she wondered aloud, and the coals Peggy had been warming herself by caught fire.

She slid forward and kissed Megan again. “Bedroom?” she asked, when she pulled away, breathless.

“ _Okay_ ,” Megan said, a little stunned. She giggled, like they were two little girls jumping on a bed, and held out her hand.

Peggy’s confidence took a dip when they got to the bedroom and she didn’t know what to do. She’d never had sex with a woman before. Would she know a woman’s body better than she had a man’s, that first time years ago?

“Here,” Megan said, catching on, and stepped forward to undo Peggy’s blouse. It had a tie at the neck, and she pulled that loose slowly, looking in Peggy’s eyes. She traced her bare sternum with the tips of her fingers. “You have beautiful skin,” she said. “Like porcelain.”

Here, in front of her, Megan didn’t seem like a magazine spread any longer. She was flesh and blood, with blue veins pulsing at her wrists and a trace of that morning’s perfume lingering on her collarbones or in her hair. Peggy wanted to touch her, and Peggy could touch her, had been given permission — god, was this what men felt like? Was this why they chased girls?

“I don’t know what to do,” Peggy said.

“I can lead,” Megan told her, pushing her gently back onto the bed.

And Peggy let her. She was used to men who wanted her to be less assertive during sex, and she was always annoyed by them. But it was different, somehow, to let a woman take over. To let her kiss the side of her neck, to let her bite her breasts through the fabric of her bra.

(Plain white cotton. Peggy had not prepared for this.)

“You look like all the girls I had crushes on in junior high,” Megan said.

“Junior high?”

“Middle school but Canadian,” she said. “It’s kind of cute that you don’t know that. I always did like the innocent ones.”

I’m not innocent, Peggy thought. “You want to mess me up,” Peggy said. “Get me all — turned upside down until I forget my own name. You’re like all the boys my mother warned me about. Or the bad girls, the ones who used to smoke behind the gym —”

“God,” said Megan, and kissed her. “Did you want to go to bed with them too?”

“Maybe,” said Peggy. There had been a certain interest there. A desire to be noticed by them and the fear that they would. She had felt flashes of a similar feeling with Joan, occasionally, on the rare occasions that Joan actually approved of what she did. “But you’re my first.”

“Oh,” Megan said. “I like hearing that.”

Peggy laughed against her mouth. “I can tell.”

After that there was very little talking. Megan put her mouth on Peggy, through her underwear, and sucked until it was clinging to her. She peeled them down her legs and and kissed one thigh with a wet, open mouth.

Peggy shivered and her hands tightened in Megan’s hair. Megan made a small, pleased sound and blew a breath across her exposed flesh. It made her twitch, her nerves already worn down from anticipation. “Come on,” Peggy said, “come on —”

“Shhh,” Megan said, her thumb parting the seam of Peggy’s cunt. “Let me take care of you, baby”. She kissed between her legs, once, and then dove in.

And oh, she wasn’t hesitant at all. She knew exactly what she was doing, licking deep and dirty the way men had never bothered to do for her, the way she had always wanted. Long swipes of her tongue that made Peggy’s toes curl, made her her chase Megan’s mouth with her hips.

“God —” she said, covering her face with her hands, grabbing at the sheets.

Megan hummed and Peggy jerked forward. Megan’s fingers were digging into Peggy’s hip bones. She forced her back down and flicked her tongue against Peggy’s clit. Just held her still and licked and licked and _licked_ , her jaw working. There was wet streaked down Peggy’s thighs, which tensed as though for impact.

It was almost too intense, _too_ good, and she pushed against Megan’s forehead with the heel of her hand. Fuck, she couldn’t get _away_ from it. “No,” she said, and “yes, Jesus _yes_.” Seconds later she was sobbing, begging Megan not stop.

And Megan didn’t. She was relentless — fucking Peggy with her tongue, licking her slowly to bring her back down, and finally sucking so hard on her clit that Peggy shrieked, twisting onto her side and fuck, _fuck_ , she was coming like she hadn’t in years. Megan kept going through the aftershocks, making Peggy blind with it, blank as a sheet of paper, wanting more and wanting less and biting the sheets to muffle her keening.

And then Megan pushed two fingers inside her and did it again. “ _God_ ,” Peggy cried, a second orgasm taking her before the first one had ended.

Megan’s face, when it emerged from between her thighs, was blotched with pink. Her lips were slick and her perfect hair was a tousled mess. Peggy grabbed a fistful of it and pulled her in for a hard kiss.

They scrambled against each other until Peggy got Megan on her back. They kept kissing — hot, messy kisses where they bumped noses and caught against the sharp edge of teeth — and Megan grasped one of Peggy’s hands around the wrist. “Like this,” she said, and pushed Peggy’s fingers inside herself. Her eyes closed. “God,” she sighed. “Just like that.” And then she rolled her hips, grinding down like she was using a toy.

“You,” said Peggy, floundering around the words. She pulled her hand back — ignoring Megan’s yell of protest — and flipped Megan onto her stomach.

“Oh,” Megan said, getting the picture as Peggy pushed her knees forward, her ass in the air, and it should have looked ridiculous —

But it wasn’t, it wasn’t, it was so hot, and Peggy couldn’t wait to fuck her until she screamed.

She stretched Megan around her knuckles, pushing in as far as she could. “You’re so wet,” she said. “I can smell you —”

“Please,” Megan said, and then something in French, and Peggy started fucking her hard, and kind of mean, and just this side of rough. She loved it. She absolutely fucking loved it. Pushed her hips back, slammed a frustrated fist against the mattress. Every thrust was wet and noisy.

Peggy licked around her fingers and Megan seized up; she kept going until her wrist was aching. She slapped Megan’s ass — she’d never done anything like that in her _life_ — and left a red mark there. She wanted to do more, to tie her up or down, to see how many fingers she could fit inside, to possess her somehow. It was insane. She rubbed Megan’s clit in circles and fucked her like an animal and drank in every shriek, every spasm of need.

“Almost,” Megan was saying, babbling, her eyes wet at the corners. “Almostalmostoh _fuck_ —”

Unlike Peggy, she didn’t try to hold back when she came.

They didn’t cuddle much afterwards. Not because they didn’t want to, but because they were both so overheated and sweaty. Megan ran her nails up and down the inside of Peggy’s arm.

“I knew Catholic schoolgirls were the dirtiest,” she said.

Peggy woke up the next morning a little dehydrated but not enough to qualify as a hangover. She looked up at an unfamiliar ceiling from the unfamiliar bed and thought, fuck. It was ten in the morning and she was supposed to be at work and hour ago.

Megan didn’t stir until Peggy was putting on her shoes. She raised her head groggily from the pillow and gave Peggy a slow and easy smile.

“Some night, huh?” she said.

“Yeah,” said Peggy, and winced. “Um. So I kind of have to get going —”

“Of course,” said Megan. She sat up, the blankets falling to her waist. Her eyeliner was all over the place. The view was still very good. “You need anything from me? Directions on how to get home?”

“No,” Peggy said. “I know the city pretty well. I’m just…” She gestured to the door. “I’m late for work.”

“Don’t let me keep you,” Megan said. “It was nice getting to know you, Peggy.”

Peggy thought about what she said, all the way home. It was nice getting to know you. It was nice. It had been. And she’d cheated on her boyfriend. Peggy had never done anything like that before. Except, maybe, helping Pete be unfaithful to Trudy. She hadn’t thought of it as cheating; she hadn’t thought of his wife at all. She’d barely seemed like a real person at the time. And then the baby came, and she hadn’t been able to think about anything else.

She showered as soon as she got home, but she didn’t go to work. She called in sick, and then phoned Mark and asked if he wanted to make plans for dinner.

 

 

“Have you met the new girl?” Joan asked. “I know you don’t have much to do with the secretaries now but I thought you’d still like to keep on top of things.”

It was a slap, a reminder of where she’d come from, but Peggy was too tired to respond. She’d been up all night working on mouthwash and her eyes felt like she was blinking through sand. Why was it always the stupidest, least glamorous products that came attached to the most particular clients? She needed a huge mug of the blackest coffee that she could find, which was why they were headed to the kitchen.

“No,” Peggy said. “What’s she like?”

“Young,” said Joan, the sugar in her voice not disguising the tartness underneath. “Not very experienced. But she’ll do well in reception. She knows how to smile when people come in.”

“No crying in the break room from this one?” Peggy asked.

Joan flicked a glance back at her over her shoulder. “No,” she said, and as they rounded the corner, “there she is! Megan, this is Peggy Olson. Peggy, this is our new receptionist, Megan.”

There was a big, bright, insincere smile on Joan’s face. There was a small, frozen one on Megan’s. Peggy, she was sure, looked deranged.

“Hi!” she said, too loudly, in a tone that practically screamed what are you _doing_ here.

“You’re acquainted?” Joan asked, zeroing in on Peggy’s discomfort immediately. Her eyebrows quirked with curiosity.

“From a couple of weeks ago,” said Megan. She was dressed more conservatively than she had been when she and Peggy met, her makeup sedate and her dress stylish but not especially memorable. “Peggy helped me dodge this guy — he was being very persistent. I’m sure you’re familiar with the type, Joan.”

It was a smart way of putting it, if a little transparent. Even Joan wasn’t going to turn down an obvious compliment.

“I might be,” Joan said, the corners of her mouth quirking up. “And it’s always nice to know someone when you start a new job.”

“I think so,” Peggy said. “I wish I’d known someone here.” She busied herself making coffee so she wouldn’t have to look Megan in the eye. God, this was so awkward. Why did everyone she slept with have to end up in this damn office?

“I’d better get back to the desk,” Megan said. She gave Peggy a nod and a smile and headed briskly away. Peggy watched her go for a second too long; when she turned back Joan was looking at her, one hand on her hip, her lips pursed.

“How do you actually know her?” she asked.

 

 

Peggy went home with Mark after the Christmas party. She was a little drunk. She’d seen Megan before she left, trapped in a conversation with someone from accounting, intense and obvious boredom all over her face. She’d considered coming to the rescue again. But then Mark put his arm around her shoulders and whispered in her ear. She tried, kept awake by his snoring later on, to remember what he’d said to her. But it was gone, just like that.

 

 

Stan made her a paper crown for her birthday. She wore it all through the afternoon and after everyone left, dawdling in the office. She was having dinner with Mark. It wasn’t her first choice of restaurant, but it would probably be okay. So she didn’t know why she was lingering in the office, her work done, and her boyfriend waiting for her out in the city.

She ran into Megan in the bathroom as she was leaving. “Happy birthday,” Megan said. “How old are you?”

“You knew about that?” Peggy asked, and could see by her reflection that she was going a little pink in her cheeks.

“I’m the receptionist,” Megan said, pausing in application of her lipstick to grin at Peggy in the mirror. “I know everything. And you didn’t answer the question. Should I not have asked?”

“ _Hey_ ,” Peggy said. “I’m not that old. I’m twenty-six.”

“Well,” Megan said. “You’re doing all right, aren’t you?” She directed an admiring glance Peggy’s way. It made Peggy feel like she really was doing all right, like she wasn’t just spinning her wheels at work or at home, taking what she could get.

“I’m going out to dinner,” Peggy said, impulsively. “Would you want to come?”

Which was insane. Bringing the woman she’d cheated on Mark with to dinner with Mark was insane. But it came out of her mouth and she couldn’t retract it. Maybe Megan would turn her down.

“Sure!” Megan said.

“I should call him first,” Peggy said. She could handle this. She could. “They might be all booked up.”

“I’m sure they can add a chair,” Megan said.

Peggy called the restaurant from her office. Megan sat on the edge of her desk, her foot tapping against the side as Peggy listened to the ringtone and tried to calm herself down. It was dinner, with a friend and her boyfriend. There was nothing to be worried about. Megan wasn’t an idiot — she’d never even brought up what had happened between them. Peggy wasn’t the only one who knew how to keep a secret.

“Hi,” she said, breathlessly, when Mark picked up.

“Where are you?’ he said, immediately annoyed. “You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.”

“I ran a little late,” she said, wincing. She ran a little late a lot. He hated it.

“We’ve all been waiting,” he said. “No one can even order. Everyone’s stuck eating breadsticks and the waiter keeps looking at us.”

“We?” said Peggy. “Who the hell is we?”

“Your whole family is here,” he said. “I invited them.”

“ _Mark_ ,” she said, her fingers going tight around the phone. “I wanted it to just be us. You knew that. Why would you want my mother there? Or my sister?” Now she was going to have to spend the whole night dodging Ma’s insults and watching Anita try to make up for them. She’d wanted to relax. To have a few drinks without worrying that something untoward was going to come out of her mouth in her mother’s presence. It was her _birthday_.

“I don’t know, Peggy,” Mark said, sounding as whiny as he was sarcastic. “I thought you might actually want to spend a special occasion with your family. I guess I was wrong.”

“Yes, you were wrong,” Peggy snapped. “Why are you always trying to score points with a bunch of people who drive me crazy? Are you dating _them_?”

“Are you dating your boss?” Mark shot back. “Is that why you’re always at work?”

“No,” Peggy yelled into the receiver. “It’s just better than being with you!”

There was a long, ringing silence. An irreversible kind of silence. “You know what?” Mark said, at the end of it. “Have a nice life.” And then he hung up.

Peggy set the receiver back in the cradle, not gently. Her face was hot and tingling.

“Uh,” Megan said. Her eyes were round. “You okay?”

“My boyfriend just broke up with me,” she said. “Or I broke up with him. I’m not sure.” She pulled out a cigarette and tried to light it. Her hands were still shaking in anger.

Megan’s face softened. “Let me bring you home,” she said.

Peggy exhaled a plume of smoke. “No,” she said, decisively. “I don’t want to go home. I want to forget he exists.” She shook her head. “I don’t even know why I bothered — he wasn’t worth it. None of these guys are worth it.”

“I know,” Megan said. She drummed her fingers on the surface of the desk. “I might have something. If you want a distraction — my friends are putting on an experimental play. It would kill a couple of hours, at least. And it’s cheaper than hitting the bar.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“It’s _prett_ y experimental.”

“Perfect,” Peggy said. “I love experimental theater.” Thankfully Megan didn’t ask her any questions about it. The last time she’d seen a play was in high school, and it was Shakespeare. Who would be considered experimental, anyway? Ibsen?

Megan stopped at the elevator doors, a hand raised to her forehead. “Shit,” she said. “I was supposed to tell you that Mr. Draper was looking for you. Want to go back?”

Peggy closed her eyes for a second. She probably should. But she was sick of Don, too. Every time she looked at him she thought of the Glo-coat ad that should have been hers. And he was going to find some excuse to keep her in the office. She would let him.

“No,” she said. Megan hit the button. Going down, she thought, as the doors slid open.

 

 

Watching the action unfold, Peggy questioned whether the play could even be called a play.

There was no plot, first of all. And it wasn’t in a theater at all. They were sitting in a warehouse on folding chairs spread out in a circle. “Thank god,” Megan had said upon seeing them. “Last time they made us stand.”

In the centre of the space there was a square on the floor drawn in chalk. This was what the chairs surrounded. A man — an actor, presumably, though Peggy couldn’t be sure if what he was doing matched that job description — was rolling around on the floor wrapped in a paint splattered tarp. The character’s name was “the Primitive” according to the pamphlet they had been given (cheap, with ink that smeared on her hands).

Above him stood the “Angel of Death” which was just a man wearing a cloak that had a bunch of garbage glued all over it. His face was covered with a sheet. Peggy supposed he was supposed to be intimidating, but he looked like a kid’s concept of a bag lady. She’d watched, non-plussed, as he approached the stage — or square, whatever — expecting something to happen. Nothing did. He kept standing there, looking down at the Primitive having his fit.

“Ice or fire,” the Primitive said. It was hard to hear him properly; he kept rolling over on his own face and muffling the words. “The world ends in ice or fire —”

Peggy couldn’t take it anymore. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered under her breath, and looked sideways at Megan.

Megan was pressing her lips together, trying not laugh. “I never said it was good theater,” she said. And then _neither_ of them could control themselves; they kept laughing, wheezing with the effort to keep it in, for the rest of the play.

“Okay,” Megan said, afterwards. “That was stupid. But I bet it took your mind off your problems.”

“It did,” Peggy agreed. “For a little while.”

“You know what else would?” Megan asked, slyly and pulled a joint out of her purse. “Drugs.”

They were standing outside, leaning back against the wall of the warehouse. It was one of those perfect spring nights. A clear sky, a gentle breeze. Peggy didn’t even need her jacket.

“Have you ever smoked before?” Megan asked. She lit the joint. “It’s easy. You only have to —”

Peggy took it from her and put it between her lips and inhaled. It was strong, good stuff. “Quit underestimating me,” she said, through the smoke.

Megan retrieved the joint. She took a long toke. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” she said, her eyes half closed.

“I try to be.”

Megan smiled at her. It was the same kind of smile she’d worn the day they met, back at the apartment. Peggy felt herself start to flush. Memories, she thought, as much as anticipation. Hmmm, that was an interesting connection. Maybe she could use it in an ad someday.

“I’m kind of stoned already,” she said.

“So am I,” Megan said. “Better living through chemistry.”

“It’s not chemistry,” Peggy said. “It’s a plant.”

“Plants still have chemistry,” Megan said. She waved the joint around. Peggy looked out at the road, eyes peeled for blue and red lights. The last thing she needed was to get arrested. “They have molecules, or something.”

“Molecules,” said Peggy, with a giggle. “What does that even mean.” A door slammed, and a man started yelling. She turned towards the sound.

There was a guy stumbling down the steps of a building a couple of doors down. It looked like offices, cheap ones. He was young, probably only in his early twenties, and had curly black hair that was sticking up everywhere, like he’d been pulling on it. There was a box under his arm filled with papers and a bright red mug that was rolling around the top of it.

“Uh oh,” Megan said.

“You’ll be sorry,” he was yelling, up at a window above. “You’re gonna regret this!” He put his box roughly down. The mug fell over the edge, colliding with the pavement and shattering. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck!” He went up on his toes, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Hey!” he bellowed. “I didn’t want to work for this crapsack of a company, anyway. You’re ten years behind! Ten!”

A face appeared dimly in the window. The guy on the sidewalk greeted it by making a very rude gesture. With both hands.

“Oh my god,” Megan said. “He’s going to get himself arrested.” She started to run towards him.

“What?” Peggy asked, but she followed along.

Megan grabbed one arm and Peggy got the other. She might have been concerned about manhandling a guy who was in the midst of a public tantrum on a New York city street, but he looked more like a kicked puppy that anything, wide-eyed and vibrating with hurt.

They shuffled him along the sidewalk until he broke away. “What the hell?” he barked. “Are you crazy? You better not be robbing me, ‘cause I don’t have any money.”

“We can see that,” Megan said. “You just got fired. But you’ll end up in jail, too, if you keep it up.”

He sat down heavily on the edge of the sidewalk. His foot was in a puddle but he didn’t seem to notice. “What difference does it make?” he asked. “My career is done with. I’m a goner.”

“My career’s been over with at least five times,” Megan said, crouching down next to him. “And I got a callback from an audition yesterday.”

“I didn’t know you were still acting,” Peggy said. She felt slightly put out, like Megan should have told her.

Megan looked up at her. “It’s a small part,” she said. “Really a glorified extra. Besides, I don’t have it _yet_.”

“Well, um, break a leg,” Peggy said. “That’s what I’m supposed to say, right?”

“I’m not superstitious,” Megan said. “Most of the time.”

“I am,” said the kid on the sidewalk, glumly. “And I think I’m cursed.”

Peggy sighed. She and Megan clearly weren’t going to be leaving him by himself. Megan was already smiling beatifically over at him in a very soothing way. She was probably the kind of person who fed alleycats and tried to rescue birds with broken wings when she was a girl.

Her buzz was wearing off. She accepted reality and sat down, smoothing her coat out so that her dress wouldn’t come in contact with dirty concrete. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Michael,” he said. “Michael Ginsberg.”

They ended up taking him to a diner and buying him a coffee. Peggy looked through the box he brought with him — scraps of work, ads he’d written that he liked enough to save — while he asked Megan a bunch of questions about acting. How long did you get to learn your lines? Do they film auditions? How do they know how you look on camera if they don’t? He said he didn’t want to talk about himself. “I’m sick of myself right now,” he said. “I’d pay money to be a different person for a day. All I ever do is make the same mistakes over and over again.”

“Don’t say that,” Megan said. “Everyone goes through rough patches.”

“My father’s gonna be so disappointed, you know?” he said. “He was so proud of me for getting into this. He works in a deli, he thinks everyone who sits at a desk all day has it good. But he’s in the neighborhood surrounded by people we know and I’m out there with a bunch of assholes from Harvard or Yale or wherever. They think my accent is funny. They think everything about me is funny, until they think it’s disgusting.”

“I think your accent is adorable,” Megan told him.

He smiled, an unexpected shyness passing over his face. Megan winked at him. Peggy interrupted, thrusting a piece of paper from the box at him.

“What,” he said, reeling backwards, because it was almost touching his nose.

“This is good,” Peggy said. “Do you have a book?”

“Kind of,” he said. “It’s more of a binder.”

“Get a real one,” she said. “And put that in it.” She slid her business card across the table. “Call me once you have it set up. I might be able to do something for you.”

He picked it up. “You’re in advertising,” he said, slowly. “I can’t believe it.”

Peggy bristled. “Why not?”

“Not because you’re a girl,” he said, quickly. “I know girls can write ads. I mean you understand all sorts of things that men aren’t going to, right? Like pantyhose, right? I don’t understand pantyhose at all. Why does it exist? It’s see through anyway, and it rips every time you —”

“Michael,” she said, because he was spiralling off into god knew what. She hoped he could keep it together in an interview. Don wasn’t as forgiving as she was. And his work _was_ good.

“It’s just such a coincidence,” he said. “You being in advertising. Who would’ve guessed?”

Megan’s foot bumped up against hers under the table. “The world is full of coincidences,” she said.

 

 

“That was really nice of you,” Megan said while they were walking to the subway. Peggy wasn’t sure that she was right. Maybe she wanted to give a talented if eccentric young copywriter a job, to give him a chance the way she’d been given a chance. Or maybe she hadn’t liked the way he’d been looking at Megan and wanted to derail the conversation.

But it didn’t matter why she’d done it; by the time she got to work the next day Michael had already called twice, once to talk about his book and once to ask if it was too soon for him to be calling.

 

 

“I think he has a crush,” Megan said, over sushi in the Village.

It was after work. They went out regularly, now, after work: to bars or restaurants for a drink and a meal. “What’s the point of living in the city if you stay home all the time?” Megan said. Peggy found herself spending less time at the office than she ever had. She was pretty sure Don wasn’t happy with it. But everyone else got to put in their eight hours and leave; why shouldn’t she?

Sometimes their friends came with them, Joyce and some of the girls from LIFE or actresses Megan knew, girls with big hair and short dresses. But tonight they were alone, and tonight Megan was talking about Michael having a crush.

“On you,” Peggy said.

Megan shook her head and downed the rest of her drink. “Nope,” she said. “Guess again.”

Peggy’s forehead wrinkled. “On _me_?”

“No,” Megan said, with a snort. “Honestly, Peggy. You are so bad at this.”

“Bad at what?” she said. “Just tell me. I hate guessing games.”

Megan leaned forward across the table, a hand cupped around her mouth. Her eyes flicked back and forth theatrically. “On Stan,” she whispered.

“On Sta— oh, come on,” Peggy scoffed. “No, he doesn’t. How would you even know that.”

“I always know,” she said. “I have an instinct for that kind of thing.”

“What kind of thing?” Peggy asked.

Megan looked over with her head tilted to the side. It was a gesture that was clearly supposed to mean something, but Peggy didn’t know what. She liked being the focus of Megan’s attention, though, still. She should probably be getting over that any day now.

“You really can’t tell,” Megan said.

“Tell _what_ ,” Peggy said, and Megan put her head down on the table and laughed and laughed.

“Why are we even talking about this?” Peggy complained. She raised her glass only to realize it was empty. “Michael’s life is none of our business. Even if it involves Stan. It can’t _possibly_ involve Stan, you’re crazy.”

“We’re talking about them because they’re our friends,” Megan said. “And they’re not here so they can’t stop us. And I wouldn’t underestimate Stan. He told you he was a baseball player, right? All those long nights away from home with the team…”

“ _Megan_ ,” Peggy gasped, going bright red.

Megan laughed again, so loudly that it attracted the attention of two guys at the bar. “Oops,” she said, as they headed in their direction, cocktails in hand. They were both drinking Old Fashioneds.

They were young, blandly handsome, and probably in Finance somewhere. One had light hair and one dark. One wore a blue suit; the other, brown.

“We couldn’t help noticing how much fun you girls were having,” the blond said. “Since I only have him to listen to—” here he gestured at his friend with the glass, smiling, “would you mind if I joined in?”

“Hey,” his friend said. “Don’t leave me behind. The bartender’s already sick of my jokes.’

They looked expectant. Megan glanced at Peggy. She was going to say yes, Peggy knew. Maybe out of politeness. Or maybe because she wanted to. They were both cute enough, in a toothpaste commercial kind of way. Peggy could have cast them herself.

It wouldn’t be a bad ending to the night. It just wasn’t going to be the one that Peggy wanted.

“That’s up to my friend here,” Peggy said. “I’m going to head home.”

“Oh,” Megan said. “You sure? We could split a cab.”

“We live on opposite ends of town,” Peggy reminded her. She bussed her cheek, briefly, and left her with her new victims. One of them was already stealing Peggy’s seat. Peggy was sure he’d end of paying for the cab, and the rest of the drinks as well.

She went home on the subway. The flickering lights were giving her a headache so she closed her eyes and rested her head against the window. She could count the stops without looking. There was a busker by the stairs when she got off, playing Bob Dylan on the guitar. She gave him a dollar as she passed.

 

 

“Have you seen it?” Ken was asking Harry in the kitchen while the coffee brewed. “It’s really short. I’m kind of surprised.” Neither of them noticed Peggy’s approach, a mug half-filled with the dregs of last night’s coffee in her hand and a file folder under her arm.

“It’s a mutilation,” Harry said.

“It’s not that bad,” Ken said. “She’s still a pretty girl.”

“She looks like a man,” Harry said. “Women always do when they chop their hair off. Unless they’re built like Joan. Do they think men like that? It’s not — chic, or whatever the hell. I don’t care if Jean Seberg did it first.”

“Okay,” said Ken, dubiously. “I’ve never seen a man that looks like that. But if you say so.”

“Fine,” said Harry with a shrug. “Then a dyke. She looks like a dyke.”

“Who does?” Peggy asked.

Harry looked like she was peeling around the corner in a car with cut brake lines and he was in her headlights. Good. “Nobody,” he said.

“Had to be somebody,” Peggy said, coldly. “So who is it, Harry? Who looks like a —” she wrinkled her nose but said it anyway, “like a dyke?”

Ken sighed. “Megan cut her hair off. Harry has opinions about it.”

“Doesn’t Harry have work to do?” she asked. “Or should I go get Megan and we’ll quiz her about what she does with her own head? I’m sure that’s good use of our time. And hers.”

“Harry has to go,” he muttered, “because he doesn’t like where this conversation is going.”

“He’s afraid of you,” Ken mused, after he left. “He probably thinks you put a curse on Freddy Rumsen to get his job.”

“Oh,” said Peggy, “does he think I’m a lesbian, too? That seems to be his go-to theory these days.” She washed her mug out in the sink, flicking water around with more force than was necessary.

“He thinks all women are lesbians,” said Ken, “because they won’t sleep with him.”

Peggy stopped by to see Megan that afternoon. She’d been moved on to Don’s desk after Mrs. Blankenship went to her long rest. Peggy couldn’t tell if that was a promotion or not.

“Mr. Draper is out,” Megan said promptly, in the midst of typing something.

“I wasn’t looking for him,” Peggy said.

“You wanted to see it?” Megan asked, touching the back of her head. “People have been making comments all day. I had no idea everyone was so invested in my hairstyle.”

“It looks nice,” Peggy said, and it did. It wasn’t really a Seberg-style buzzcut, but had longer bangs combed neatly to the side while being short and sleek in the back and the sides. It brought out all the angles in her face.

“Thanks,” said Megan. “I really just wanted a change. I think my poor hairdresser almost had a heart attack, though.”

“It’s great,” Peggy said. “You should do what you want to. And look how you want to.”

Megan hit a few keys and adjusted the paper. “It’ll be nice and cool for California as well.”

“Vacation?”

“Nope,” Megan said. “Mr. Draper is bringing me. He needs someone to look after the kids.”

“Oh,” said Peggy. There was a burning in her chest. She regretted that coffee, because that must be why she felt this way, like she’d dropped a match down her throat. Don was taking Megan to California. Don and Megan, in California. “I hear it’s beautiful,” she said.

“I flipped a coin when I moved down here,” Megan said. “New York or LA. New York won. But I’m curious to see the coast. Hopefully we’ll get to take a drive out there.”

“Fingers crossed,” Peggy said.

Megan’s hands stilled on the typewriter. She frowned. “Are you okay? You look kind of sick.”

“Liquid lunch,” Peggy lied. “It’s not sitting well.”

“Go take a nap,” Megan said. “Mr. Draper won’t be back for hours, you can use his office.”

“No,” Peggy said. “I’ll be fine. I just — I’ll go back to my office.”

She went down to the lobby instead, and to the bar across the street. She drank three Manhattans in a row and missed a meeting with Joan.

 

 

Peggy knocked on Stan’s door. She almost hoped he wouldn’t answer.

But she was driving herself crazy. It was this or call Megan’s room at the hotel. Or Don’s. And she knew she would hate whatever she found there.

Stan, at least, would talk to her. He’d tell her she was being an idiot and it would make her feel better. But it wasn’t Stan who opened the door.

Michael was behind it, in his sock feet and his old jeans, looking pretty comfortable except for the arrested expression on his face. “What,” he said, with an almost comedic double-take, “what are you doing here? It’s ten at night.”

“Me?” Peggy asked. “What are you doing here?” Suspicion bloomed in her mind. “Are you working on something without me?”

“What?” he said. “Since when is Stan gonna be working on anything unless you pay him?”

“Ginzo,” Stan called out from inside the apartment. “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” Peggy said, and pushed past Michael. She left her shoes and her purse at the door and went right on in. She didn’t plan on leaving anytime soon. “Do you have anything to drink?”

Stan squinted at her. He was sitting on the couch messing around with a guitar, which he did not know how to play, and was clearly stoned. “I’ve got weed,” he offered.

“Ugh,” she said, dropping down next to him. “I don’t want weed.”

“Well,” Michael said, “since nobody invited you over to begin with you probably shouldn’t complain.”

“Why do you care?” she asked. “You don’t even live here.”

“Manners matter,” said the man who once pointed out to a client, in the middle of a pitch, that there was something green in his teeth. He headed into the kitchen, presumably to forage for booze.

He moved very familiarly around the apartment, Peggy thought. He knew where everything was, opening cupboards and pushing aside boxes, standing on his toes to see the high shelves. There had been a flush across his cheeks when he opened the door and saw her standing on the other side of it. She was pretty sure he was wearing one of Stan’s shirts.

“There’s tea,” he called out, his head halfway inside the cupboard.

“That’s fine,” she said, and then twisted sideways towards Stan while Michael had his back turned. “Oh my god,” she whispered, incredulous. Yet the evidence was right before her eyes.

“What?” he asked, paranoid.

“You’re sleeping with him,” she said.

“You got that from _tea_?” he hissed.

“He’s wearing your clothes.”

“He,” Stan said, and looked over. Michael was still making the tea, putting the kettle on, blissfully unaware of their conversation. “Fuck. He is.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m too stoned for this.”

“Don’t let him go into work like that.”

“Will you keep your voice down?” Stan asked. “If he hears you I’m going to have to spend half the night peeling him off the ceiling.”

“If he hears what?” Michael asked, because he had ears like a bat.

It would have been so much easier for Stan to stick with girls. Or with practically anyone but Michael, who could never keep his mouth shut about anything, who didn’t fit in at the office, who was already an object of curiosity and gossip. Everyone said he was crazy, but maybe he was just honest. And she supposed Stan must be too, if he was choosing this, the difficult thing, the risky thing.

Peggy was the only liar in the room.

“That I’m in love with Megan,” she said, and Michael almost dropped her tea on the floor.

“Now I need a drink,” Stan said, and it was a joke, it was a harmless joke, but Peggy started sniffling.

“I was going to call her,” she said, dabbing at her tears with the ends of her sleeves. “In California. Because she’s there with Don, and they’re probably sleeping together, and I’m so stupid because she doesn’t even want me anymore —”

“Anymore?” Stan asked, but Michael shot him a look and he clammed up.

Michael pressed the tea into her hands. “How do you know they’re sleeping together?” he asked. “Don’s an asshole. He’s probably making her miserable right now.”

“Of course they’re sleeping together,” Peggy said. “Or he wants to. Since when does he take his secretary on a vacation? He never took me anywhere.”

“Just because he wants to doesn’t mean he gets to,” said Stan. He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “You give Don too much credit, chief. You always did.”

“She goes to lesbian bars,” said Michael.

Peggy and Stan looked at him like he’d levitated off the ground and flown around the room. “What,” Peggy croaked.

“She does,” Michael insisted. “She told me. And I’m telling you. Which I wouldn’t do unless I knew I was,” he floundered for a moment, going a deep red and clearing his throat, “in the company of like-minded people. So to speak.”

“Wow,” said Stan. “Pretty big bombshell to drop, buddy.”

“What I’m saying,” Michael continued, ignoring him, “is that I think you still have a shot.”

Peggy twisted her fingers together. “But what if they’re already together? They’re spending all that time alone. And California is supposed to be very romantic.”

“Peggy,” Stan said. “Fuck California. Make coming home feel better.”

 

 

Megan returned the office with a tan and a big smile on her face. There was a huge vase of flowers on her desk. She stopped to inspect them, bending over the blooms and picking up the card. Peggy watched her anxiously through the meeting room blinds.

“I can’t believe you didn’t just put your name on the card,” Michael said, who was standing next to her, also staring out.

“I don’t know how she’s going to react,” Peggy said. “I don’t want to ruin both of our days if it’s bad. And I can’t believe I let you pick those flowers.”

“Roses are a cliche,” he said.

“I like cliches.”

Megan was looking down at the card, now, her fingers to her lips. Peggy couldn’t tell if she was smiling. _From your secret admirer_ , it said. And then, _Creative Lounge, 7:00 PM._

Peggy hoped everyone would be gone by then. You could never tell with this place.

She sweated through the day, trying not to make excuses to stop by Megan’s desk or call her. She stayed in her office with the door closed and asked her secretary to tell people that she didn’t want to be disturbed. Stan kept giving her sympathetic looks but thank god he didn’t say anything, and stepped on Michael’s foot when he tried to.

She invented reasons that Megan wouldn’t show. Because the card was unsigned and she thought that was creepy. Because she had guessed it was Peggy and wasn’t interested. Because she thought the flowers came from Don and he decided to take credit for them the way he did everything else.

At the hour of decision Peggy changed into a fresh blouse and brushed her teeth in the bathroom. She wanted to be prepared for anything that might happen.

Megan was already in the lounge when she arrived. The vase of flowers were on the table in front of her.

“Sit down,” she said. Peggy did.

“So that was you.”

Peggy nodded. “Do you like them?”

“The flowers?” Megan asked. “That’s really what you wanted to know?”

“No,” Peggy said. “I’m asking if — are you still single?”

Megan was silent for a long moment. “Is this about Don?” she asked, confirming Peggy’s worst fears.

“Oh,” she said, her voice shivering a little. “So you are —”

“Goddamn it, Peggy!” Megan yelled, making her jump. “No, we are not. Not that it’s any of your business!” She hopped to her feet and took a quick turn around the room. “You’ve got some nerve,” she said, coming back to stand in front of Peggy, her arms crossed. “I put myself out to get you to notice me for almost a year and it only matters if you think I’m sleeping with Don?”

“No,” Peggy said, and then, “you were trying to get me to notice you?”

“Of course I was!” Megan said. “That first night, getting you to light my cigarette — I don’t even smoke. The pack belonged to my friend, that’s why I didn’t have a lighter.”

“I didn’t know,” Peggy said.

“It’s a universal signal for ‘please make a pass at me’.”

“Look,” Peggy said, “I wouldn’t have cared if you were sleeping with Don. Or I would, but only because I don’t want you to be sleeping with anyone. Except me. I want you to be with me.”

Megan was chewing on her lip. She looked torn. Peggy took that as a good sign and reached over and tangled their fingers together.

“I know I’m bad at this,” she said.

“I wouldn’t say bad,” Megan said. “I wouldn’t say good, either.” Her expression softened. “I’d hoped they were from you,” she admitted. “The flowers.”

“Oh,” Peggy said, going warm with pleasure. “So did you like them?”

“They’re okay,” said Megan, “but get me roses next time,” and leaned down to kiss her.

 

 

The bartender wiped his rag along the bar, swiping around Peggy’s glass. She lifted it so he could get underneath, and when she set it back down there was a man next to her sliding a five along the damp surface.

“Here,” he said to the bartender. “Get her another.”

Peggy picked the money up. She handed it back to him, settling her purse over her shoulder and standing up.

“Thanks,” she said. “But I have someone waiting for me at home.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
